I keep many small natural specimens in my studio, and from time to time I’ll spend hours arranging them into different still-life compositions. Usually I begin with a vague idea, something I’ve been holding in my mind, and then I start pulling things out, one by one. Before I know it, my table is covered with tiny natural objects,

I find myself continually refreshed and inspired by the natural world, especially along the creek trails near my home. I have walked these same paths for years, yet they are never truly the same. Each visit reveals subtle and dramatic shifts: seasonal rhythms, floodwaters in winter, drought in summer, the steady ebb and flow of the creek reshaping the land. Even familiar places are in constant conversation with time.

I was recently asked to reflect on what motivates me to make art and what the act of creating means to me. If I’m fortunate, that reflection may be included in a book, with a celebration this spring at one of my favorite galleries. Of course, I’ll share more if it comes to pass.

Something unusual happened in my studio last year.

Normally, I work on a small group of pieces at once, whatever fits on my main work table, sometimes with a few more on an auxiliary table nearby. I take those pieces through all the stages together, moving them forward on the same timeline. Even when the works are small or varied, there’s usually an unspoken cohesion, as if they’re all part of one larger conversation.

A little while back, I scattered some poppy seeds at our local park.

I’m still choosing hope, just as I’m still looking forward to seeing those poppies bloom in our neighborhood. Some of the seeds will undoubtedly survive. Others won’t. Seeds don’t become gardens on their own. They need tending: attention, protection, and patience.